THE SERVICE.—OFFICERS’ LIFE ON BOARD.
Conditions of Life on Ship-board—A Model Ward-room—An Admiral’s
Cabin—Captains and Captains—The Sailor and his Superior Officers—A
Contrast—A Commander of the Old School—Jack Larmour—Lord
Cochrane’s Experiences—His Chest Curtailed—The Stinking Ship—The
First Command—Shaving under Difficulties—The _Speedy_ and her
Prizes—The Doctor—On Board a Gun-boat—Cabin and
Dispensary—Cockroaches and Centipedes—Other horrors—The Naval
Chaplain—His Duties—Stories of an Amateur—The Engineer—His
Increasing Importance—Popularity of the Navy—Nelson always a Model
Commander—The Idol of his Colleagues, Officers, and Men—Taking the
Men into his Confidence—The Action between the _Bellona_ and
_Courageux_—Captain Falknor’s Speech to the Crew—An Obsolete
Custom—Crossing the Line—Neptune’s Visit to the Quarter-deck—The
Navy of To-day—Its Backbone—Progressive Increase in the Size of
Vessels—Naval Volunteers—A Noble Movement—Excellent Results—The
Naval Reserve.
In the previous pages we have given some account of the various stations
visited by the Royal Navy of Great Britain. Let us next take a glance at
the ships themselves—the quarter-deck, the captain’s cabin, and the
ward-room. In a word, let us see how the officers of a ship live, move,
and have their being on board.
Their condition depends very much on their ship, their captain, and
themselves. The first point may be dismissed briefly, as the general
improvement in all descriptions of vessels, including their interior
arrangements, is too marked to need mentioning. The ward-room of a modern
man-of-war is often as well furnished as any other dining-room—handsomely
carpeted, the sides adorned with pictures, with comfortable chairs and
lounges, and excellent appointments at table. In the ward-room of a
Russian corvette visited by the writer, he found a saloon large enough for
a ball, with piano, and gorgeous side-board, set out as in the houses of
most of the northern nations of Europe, with sundry bottles and incitives
to emptying them, in the shape of salt anchovies and salmon, caviare and
cheese. In a British flag-ship he found the admiral’s cabin, while in port
at least, a perfect little bijou of a drawing-room, with harmonium and
piano, vases of flowers, portfolios of drawings, an elaborate stove, and
all else that could conduce to comfort and luxury. Outside of this was a
more plainly-furnished cabin, used as a dining-room. Of course much of
this disappears at sea. The china and glass are securely packed, and all
of the smaller loose articles stowed away; the piano covered up in canvas
and securely “tied up” to the side; likely enough the carpet removed, and
a rough canvas substituted. Still, all is ship-shape and neat as a new
pin. The few “old tubs” of vessels still in the service are rarely
employed beyond trifling harbour duties, or are kept for emergencies on
foreign stations. They will soon disappear, to be replaced by smart and
handy little gun-boats or other craft, where, if the accommodations are
limited, at least the very most is made of the room at command. How
different all this is to many of the vessels of the last century and
commencement of this, described by our nautical novelists as little better
than colliers, pest ships, and tubs, smelling of pitch, paint,
bilge-water, tar, and rum! Readers will remember Marryat’s captain, who,
with his wife, was so inordinately fond of pork that he turned his ship
into a floating pig-sty. At his dinner there appeared mock-turtle soup (of
pig’s head); boiled pork and pease pudding; roast spare rib; sausages and
pettitoes; and, last of all, sucking-pig. He will doubtless remember how
he was eventually frightened off the ship, then about to proceed to the
West Indies, by the doctor telling him that with his habit of living he
would not give much for his life on that station. But although Marryat’s
characters were true to the life of his time, you would go far to find a
similar example to-day. Captains still have their idiosyncrasies, but not
of such a marked nature. There may be indolent captains, like he who was
nicknamed “The Sloth;” or, less likely, prying captains, like he in “Peter
Simple,” who made himself so unpopular that he lost all the good sailors
on board, and had to put up with a “scratch crew;” or (a comparatively
harmless variety) captains who amuse their officers with the most
outrageous yarns, but who are in all else the souls of honour. Who can
help laughing over that Captain Kearney, who tells the tale of the Atta of
Roses ship? He relates how she had a puncheon of the precious essence on
board; it could be smelt three miles off at sea, and the odour was so
strong on board that the men fainted when they ventured near the hold. The
timbers of the ship became so impregnated with the smell that they could
never make any use of her afterwards, till they broke her up and sold her
to the shopkeepers of Brighton and Tunbridge-wells, who turned her into
scented boxes and fancy articles, and then into money. The absolutely
vulgar captain is a thing of the past, for the possibilities of entering
“by the hawse-hole,” the technical expression applied to the man who was
occasionally in the old times promoted from the fo’castle to the
quarter-deck, are very rare indeed nowadays. Still, there are
gentlemen—and there are gentlemen. The perfect example is a _rara avis_
everywhere.
[Illustration: ON DECK OF A MAN-OF-WAR, EIGHTEENTH CENTURY.]
The true reason why a captain may make his officers and men constitute an
agreeable happy family, or a perfect pandemonium of discontent and misery,
consists in the abuse of his absolute power. That power is necessarily
bestowed on him; there must be a head; without good discipline, no vessel
can be properly handled, or the emergencies of seamanship and warfare met.
But as he can in minor matters have it all his own way, and even in many
more important ones can determine absolutely, without the fear of anything
or anybody short of a court-martial, he may, and often does, become a
martinet, if not a very tyrant.
The subordinate officer’s life may be rendered a burden by a cantankerous
and exacting captain. Every trifling omission may be magnified into a
grave offence. Some captains seem to go on the principle of the Irishman
who asked, “Who’ll tread on my coat tails?” or of the other, “Did you blow
your nose at me, sir?” And again, that which in the captain is no offence
is a very serious one on the part of the officer or seaman. He may exhaust
the vocabulary of abuse and bad language, but not a retort may be made. In
the Royal Navy of to-day, though by no means in the merchant service, this
is, however, nearly obsolete. However tyrannically disposed, the language
of commanders and officers is nearly sure to be free from disgraceful
epithets, blasphemies, and scurrilous abuse, cursing and swearing.
Officers should be, and generally are, gentlemen.
A commanding lieutenant of the old school—a type of officer not to be
found in the Royal Navy nowadays—is well described by Admiral
Cochrane.(120) “My kind uncle,” writes he, “the Hon. John Cochrane,
accompanied me on board the _Iliad_ for the purpose of introducing me to
my future superior officer, Lieutenant Larmour, or, as he was more
familiarly known in the service, Jack Larmour—a specimen of the old
British seaman, little calculated to inspire exalted ideas of the
gentility of the naval profession, though presenting at a glance a
personification of its efficiency. Jack was, in fact, one of a not very
numerous class, whom, for their superior seamanship, the Admiralty was
glad to promote from the forecastle to the quarter-deck, in order that
they might mould into ship-shape the questionable materials supplied by
parliamentary influence, even then paramount in the navy to a degree which
might otherwise have led to disaster. Lucky was the commander who could
secure such an officer for his quarter-deck.
“On my introduction, Jack was dressed in the garb of a seaman, with
marlinspike slung round his neck, and a lump of grease in his hand, and
was busily employed in setting up the rigging. His reception of me was
anything but gracious. Indeed, a tall fellow, over six feet high, the
nephew of his captain, and a lord to boot, were not very promising
recommendations for a midshipman. It is not impossible he might have
learned from my uncle something about a military commission of several
years’ standing; and this, coupled with my age and stature, might easily
have impressed him with the idea that he had caught a scapegrace with whom
the family did not know what to do, and that he was hence to be saddled
with a ‘hard bargain.’
“After a little constrained civility on the part of the first lieutenant,
who was evidently not very well pleased with the interruption to his
avocation, he ordered me to ‘get my traps below.’ Scarcely was the order
complied with, and myself introduced to the midshipman’s berth, than I
overheard Jack grumbling at the magnitude of my equipments. ‘This Lord
Cochrane’s chest? Does Lord Cochrane think he is going to bring a cabin
aboard? Get it up on the main-deck!’
[Illustration: BETWEEN DECKS OF A MAN-OF-WAR, EIGHTEENTH CENTURY.]
“This order being promptly obeyed, amidst a running fire of similar
objurgations, the key of the chest was sent for, and shortly afterwards
the sound of sawing became audible. It was now high time to follow my
property, which, to my astonishment, had been turned out on the deck—Jack
superintending the sawing off one end of the chest just beyond the
keyhole, and accompanying the operation by sundry uncomplimentary
observations on midshipmen in general, and on myself in particular.
“The metamorphosis being completed to the lieutenant’s satisfaction—though
not at all to mine, for my neat chest had become an unshapely piece of
lumber—he pointed out the ‘lubberliness of shore-going people in not
making keyholes where they could most easily be got at,’ viz., at the end
of a chest instead of the middle!” Lord Cochrane took it easily, and
acknowledges warmly the service Jack Larmour rendered him in teaching him
his profession.
Later, Lord Cochrane, when promoted to a lieutenancy, was dining with
Admiral Vandepat, and being seated near him, was asked what dish was
before him. “Mentioning its nature,” says he, “I asked whether he would
permit me to help him. The uncourteous reply was—that whenever he wished
for anything he was in the habit of asking for it. Not knowing what to
make of a rebuff of this nature, it was met with an inquiry if he would
allow me the honour of taking wine with him. ‘I never take wine with any
man, my lord,’ was the unexpected reply, from which it struck me that my
lot was cast among Goths, if no worse.” Subsequently he found that this
apparently gruff old admiral assumed some of this roughness purposely, and
that he was one of the kindest commanders living.
In 1798, when with the Mediterranean fleet, ludicrous examples, both of
the not very occasional corruption of the period, and the rigid etiquette
required by one’s superior officer, occurred to Lord Cochrane, and got him
into trouble. The first officer, Lieutenant Beaver, was one who carried
the latter almost to the verge of despotism. He looked after all that was
visible to the eye of the admiral, but permitted “an honest penny to be
turned elsewhere.” At Tetuan they had purchased and killed bullocks _on
board the flagship_, for the use of the whole squadron. The reason for
this was that the hides, being valuable, could be stowed away in her hold
or empty beef-casks, as especial perquisites to certain persons on board.
The fleshy fragments on the hides soon decomposed, and rendered the hold
of the vessel so intolerable that she acquired the name of the “Stinking
Scotch ship.” Lord Cochrane, as junior lieutenant, had much to do with
these arrangements, and his unfavourable remarks on these raw-hide
speculations did not render those interested very friendly towards him.
One day, when at Tetuan, he was allowed to go wild-fowl shooting ashore,
and became covered with mud. On arriving rather late at the ship, he
thought it more respectful to don a clean uniform before reporting himself
on the quarter-deck. He had scarcely made the change, when the first
lieutenant came into the ward-room, and harshly demanded of Lord Cochrane
the reason for not having reported himself. His reply was, that as the
lieutenant had seen him come up by the side he must be aware that he was
not in a fit condition to appear on the quarter-deck. The lieutenant
replied so offensively before the ward-room officers, that he was
respectfully reminded by Cochrane of a rule he had himself laid down, that
“Matters connected with the service were not there to be spoken of.”
Another retort was followed by the sensible enough reply, “Lieutenant
Beaver, we will, if you please, talk of this in another place.” Cochrane
was immediately reported to the captain by Beaver, as having challenged
him: the lieutenant actually demanded a court-martial! And the
court-martial was held, the decision being that Cochrane should be
admonished to be “more careful in future.”
Lord Cochrane was soon after given a command. The vessel to which he was
appointed was, even eighty years ago, a mere burlesque of a ship-of-war.
She was about the size of an average coasting brig, her burden being 158
tons. She was crowded rather than manned, with a crew of eighty-four men
and six officers. Her armament consisted of fourteen _4-pounders_! a
species of gun little larger than a blunderbuss, and formerly known in the
service as “minion,” an appellation quite appropriate. The cabin had not
so much as room for a chair, the floor being entirely occupied by a small
table surrounded with lockers, answering the double purpose of
store-chests and seats. The difficulty was to get seated, the ceiling
being only five feet high, so that the object could only be accomplished
by rolling on the lockers: a movement sometimes attended with unpleasant
failure. Cochrane’s only practicable way of shaving consisted in removing
the skylight, and putting his head through to make a toilet-table of the
quarter-deck!
On this little vessel—the _Speedy_—Cochrane took a number of prizes, and
having on one occasion manned a couple of them with half his crew and sent
them away, was forced to tackle the _Gamo_, a Spanish frigate of
thirty-two heavy guns and 319 men. The exploit has hardly been excelled in
the history of heroic deeds. The commander’s orders were not to fire a
single gun till they were close to the frigate, and he ran the _Speedy_
under her lee, so that her yards were locked among the latter’s rigging.
The shots from the Spanish guns passed over the little vessel, only
injuring the rigging, while the _Speedy’s_ mere pop-guns could be
elevated, and helped to blow up the main-deck of the enemy’s ship. The
Spaniards speedily found out the disadvantage under which they were
fighting, and gave the orders to board the little English vessel; but it
was avoided twice by sheering off sufficiently, then giving them a volley
of musketry and a broadside before they could recover themselves. After
the lapse of an hour, the loss to the _Speedy_ was only four men killed
and two wounded, but her rigging was so cut up and the sails so riddled
that Cochrane told his men they must either take the frigate or be taken
themselves, in which case the Spaniards would give no quarter. The doctor,
Mr. Guthrie, bravely volunteered to take the helm, and leaving him for the
time both commander and crew of the ship, Cochrane and his men were soon
on the enemy’s deck, the _Speedy_ being put close alongside with admirable
skill. A portion of the crew had been ordered to blacken their faces and
board by the _Gamo’s_ head. The greater portion of the Spanish crew were
prepared to repel boarders in that direction, but stood for a few moments
as it were transfixed to the deck by the apparition of so many
diabolical-looking figures emerging from the white smoke of the bow guns,
while the other men rushed on them from behind before they could recover
from their surprise at the unexpected phenomenon. Observing the Spanish
colours still flying, Lord Cochrane ordered one of his men to haul them
down, and the crew, without pausing to consider by whose orders they had
been struck, and naturally believing it to be the act of their own
officers, gave in. The total English loss was three men killed, and one
officer and seventeen men wounded. The _Gamo’s_ loss was the captain,
boatswain, and thirteen seamen killed, with forty-one wounded. It became a
puzzle what to do with 263 unhurt prisoners, the _Speedy_ having only
forty-two sound men left. Promptness was necessary; so, driving the
prisoners into the hold, with their own guns pointed down the hatchway,
and leaving thirty men on the prize, Cochrane shaped the vessel’s course
to Port Mahon, which was reached safely. Some Barcelona gun-boats,
spectators of the action, did not venture to rescue the frigate.
The doctor on board a man-of-war has, perhaps, on the whole, better
opportunities and, in times of peace, more leisure than the other officers
for noting any circumstances of interest that may occur. Dr. Stables, in
his interesting little work,(121) describes his cabin on board a small
gun-boat as a miserable little box, such as at home he would have kept
rabbits or guinea-pigs in, but certainly not pigeons. He says that it
might do for a commodore—Commodore Nutt. It was ventilated by a small
scuttle, seven inches in diameter, which could only be raised in harbour,
and beneath which, when he first went to sea, he was obliged to put a
leather hat-box to catch the water; unfortunately, the bottom rotted out,
and he was at the mercy of the waves. This cabin was alive with scorpions,
cockroaches, and other “crawling ferlies,”
“That e’en to name would be unlawfu’.”
His dispensary was off the steerage, and sister-cabin to the pantry. To it
he gained access by a species of crab-walking, squeezing himself past a
large brass pump, edging in sideways. The sick would come one by one to
the dispensary, and there he saw and treated each case as it arrived,
dressing wounds, bruises, and putrefying sores. There was no sick berth
attendant, but the lieutenant told off “a little cabin-boy” for his use.
He was not a model cabin-boy, like the youngster you see in the theatres.
He certainly managed at times to wash out the dispensary, in the intervals
of catching cockroaches and making poultices, but in doing the first he
broke half the bottles, and making the latter either let them burn or put
salt into them. Finally, he smashed so much of the doctor’s apparatus that
he was kicked out. In both dispensary and what Dr. Stables calls his
“burrow,” it was difficult to prevent anything from going to utter
destruction. The best portions of his uniform got eaten by cockroaches or
moulded by damp, while his instruments required cleaning every morning,
and even this did not keep the rust at bay.
And then, those terrible cockroaches! To find, when you awake, a couple,
each two inches in length, meandering over your face, or even in bed with
you!—to find one in a state of decay in the mustard-pot!—to have to remove
their droppings and eggs from the edge of your plate previous to eating
your soup! and so on, _ad nauseam_. But on small vessels stationed in the
tropics—as described by the doctor—there were, and doubtless sometimes are
now, other unpleasantnesses. For instance, you are looking for a book, and
put your hand on a full-grown scaly scorpion. Nice sensation! the animal
twining round your finger, or running up your sleeve! _Dénoûment_:
cracking him under foot—joy at escaping a sting!
[Illustration: NAVAL OFFICERS AND SEAMEN, EIGHTEENTH CENTURY.]
“You are enjoying your dinner, but have been for some time sensible of a
strange, titillating feeling about the region of your ankle; you look down
at last, to find a centipede on your sock, with his fifty hind legs—you
thank God not his fore-fifty!—abutting on your shin. _Tableaux_:
green-to-red light from the eyes of the many-legged—horror of yourself as
you wait till he thinks proper to ‘move on.’
“To awake in the morning, and find a large, healthy-looking tarantula
squatting on your pillow, within ten inches of your nose, with his
basilisk eyes fixed on yours, and apparently saying: ‘You’re awake, are
you? I’ve been sitting here all the morning, watching you.’
“You think, if you move, he’ll bite you somewhere—and if he _does_ bite
you, you’ll go mad, and dance _ad libitum_—so you twist your mouth in the
opposite direction, and ejaculate—‘Steward!’ But the steward does not
come; in fact, he is forward, seeing after breakfast. Meanwhile, the
gentleman on the pillow is moving his horizontal mandibles in a most
threatening manner; and just as he moves for your nose, you tumble out of
your bed with a shriek, and, if a very nervous person, probably run on
deck in your shirt!”
The doctor’s last description of an accumulation of these horrors is
fearful to even think about. The bulkheads all around your berth are black
with cock and hen-roaches, a few of which are nipping your toe, and
running off with little bits of the skin of your leg; while a troop of
ants are carrying a dead one over your pillow; musquitoes and flies
attacking you everywhere; rats running in and rats running out; your lamp
just flickering and dying away into darkness, with the delicious certainty
that an indefinite number of earwigs and scorpions, besides two centipedes
and a tarantula, are hiding themselves somewhere in your cabin! All this
is possible; still Dr. Stables describes life on other vessels under more
favourable auspices.
The important addition of a chaplain to the establishment on board our
ships of war seems, from the following letter of George, Duke of
Buckingham, to have been first adopted in the year 1626:—
“THE DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM TO THE UNIVERSITY OF CAMBRIDGE.
“After my hearty commendations. His Majesty having given order for
preachers to goe in every of his ships to sea, choyce hath been made of
one Mr. Daniel Ambrose, Master of Arts and Fellow of your College, to be
one. Accordingly, upon signification to me to come hither, I thought good
to intimate unto you, that His Majesty is so careful of such scholars as
are willing to put themselves forward in so good actions, as that he will
expect—and I doubt not but that you will accordingly take order—that the
said Mr. Ambrose shall suffer noe detriment in his place with you, by this
his employment; but that you will rather take care that he shall have all
immunities and emoluments with advantage, which have been formerly, or may
be, granted to any upon the like service. Wherein, not doubting of your
affectionate care, I rest,
“Your very loving friend,
“G. BUCKINGHAM.
_“York House, July 29th, 1626.”_
Sailors, in spite of their outbursts of recklessness, have frequently,
from the very nature of their perilous calling, an amount of seriousness
underlying their character, which makes them particularly amenable to
religious influences. The chaplain on a large modern ironclad or frigate
has as many men in his charge, as regards spiritual matters, as the vicar
of a country town or large village, whilst he has many more opportunities
of reaching them directly. Many of our naval chaplains are noble fellows;
and to them come the sailors in any distress of mind, for the soothing
advice so readily given. He may not dare to interfere with the powers that
be when they are in danger of punishment, except in very rare cases; but
he can point them out their path of duty, and how to walk in it, making
them better sailors and happier men. He can lend them an occasional book,
or write for them an occasional letter home; induce them to refrain from
dissipation when on liberty; cheer them in the hour of greatest peril,
while on the watery deep, and give them an occasional reproof, but in
kindness, not in anger. To his brother officers he has even better
opportunities of doing good than to the men. On the smaller classes of
vessels—gun-boats and the like—the captain has to perform chaplain’s
duties, by reading prayers on the Sabbath. This is the case also on
well-regulated steamships or passenger sailing-vessels of the merchant
service. The fine steamers of such lines as the Cunard, or White Star, of
the Royal Mail Company, or of the P. and O., have, of course, frequently,
some clergyman, minister, or missionary on board, who is willing to
celebrate divine service.
A Committee of the Lower House of Convocation has recently collected an
immense amount of statistics regarding the provision made by private
ship-owners for the spiritual welfare of their men, and the result as
regards England is not at all satisfactory. In point of fact, it is rarely
made at all. The committee seeks to encourage the growth of religion among
sailors by providing suitable and comfortable church accommodation at all
ports, and urges owners to instruct their captains as to conducting divine
service on Sundays, and to furnish Bibles, prayer-books, and instructive
works of secular literature. Too much must not, however, be expected from
Jack. The hardships and perils through which he passes excuse much of his
exuberance ashore. It is his holiday-time; and, so long as he is only gay,
and not abandoned, the most rigid must admit that he has earned the right
to recreation. A distinguished French naval officer used to say that the
sailor fortunately had no memory. “Happy for him,” said he, “that he is
thus oblivious. Did he remember all the gales and tempests, the cold, the
drenching rain, the misery, the privations, the peril to life and limb
which he has endured, he would never, when he sets foot on shore, go to
sea again. But he has no memory. The clouds roll away, the sea is calm,
the sun shines, the boat bears him to land; the wine flows; the music
strikes up; pretty girls smile: he forgets all the past, and lives only in
the present.”
While the chaplain may, and no doubt generally does, earn the respect and
esteem of the men, woe to any example of the “Chadband” order who shall be
found on board. This is, in the Royal Navy, almost impossible; but it
sometimes happens that, on passenger ships, some sanctimonious and
fanatical individual or other has had a very rough time of it. He is
regarded as a kind of Jonah. In a recent number of that best of American
magazines, the _Atlantic Monthly_, the woes and trials of one poor Joseph
Primrose, a well-meaning minister who went out to America in 1742, are
amusingly recounted. There were, aboard the _Polly_, the vessel in which
he took passage, several of the crew who viewed their religious exercises
askance. “These men,” says he, “had been foremost in a general indignation
uprising that had ensued upon the stoppage of their daily allowance of
rum; which step had been taken on my earnest recommendation. For this
injurious drink we had substituted a harmless and refreshing beverage
concocted of molasses, vinegar, and water, from a choice receipt I had
come upon in a medical book aboard the vessel. The sailors, to a man,
refused to touch it, egged on by these contumacious fellows, and more
especially by one Springer, a daring villain, who reviled me with bitter
execrations. In fine, the captain was obliged, for our own safety, to
restore the cherished dram; and I had the mortification to find myself,
from that time forth, an object of dislike and suspicion to these men, who
were kept within decent bounds only by respect for their master. I became
convinced, on reflection, that I had gone the wrong way about this
unfortunate piece of business; having, in fact, made a very serious error
in the beginning, gentle argument and good example being more apt to bring
about the desired end than compulsory measures, these dulling the
understanding by rousing the temper, especially among persons of the
meaner sort. All my efforts—and they were not few—to place myself on a
friendly footing with these men were of no avail: they had conceived the
notion that I was their enemy, and met all my advances with obstinate
coldness. As Captain Hewlett exacted the daily attendance at prayers of
every soul on board, these knaves were compelled to be on hand with their
fellows; but they rarely failed to conduct themselves with such indecent
levity as made me rue their presence, playing covertly at cat’s-cradle,
jack-straws, and what not; besides grinning familiarly in my face,
whenever they could contrive to catch my eye.” This unseemly behaviour was
as nothing to what followed ashore. While addressing a large assemblage,
he noted the advent of a number of unmannerly fellows, who, with a great
deal of clatter, elbowed their way to the front. “The moment I clapped
eyes upon them,” says poor Primrose, “I knew them for the sailors who had
so persecuted me aboard the _Polly_, and my heart sank at the bare sight
of them.” They sung, or rather bawled, ribald words to the music of the
hymns; and one of them, when rebuked by some gentleman present, whipped
out his cutlass, and a general row ensued, which broke up the assembly. A
little later, Primrose induced a tavern-keeper to allow him to preach on
his premises. “A West Indian vessel coming into port about the middle of
April, and a horde of roystering sailors gathering in the common room of
the ‘Sailor’s Rest’ to drink, I announced a discourse on the subject of
‘gin-guzzling,’ choosing one that I had delivered aboard the _Polly_, and
which seemed to fit the occasion to a nicety. No sooner had the landlord
seen the notice to this effect that I had attached to his door-cheek, than
he sends for me to repair to the tavern without loss of time; and on my
appearance, in great haste, comes blustering up to me in a most offensive
manner, demanding whether I purposed the ruin of his trade, by putting
forth of such a mischievous paper; adding, with astounding audacity, that
he should certainly lose all the custom I had been the means of fetching
to his house, did I persist in my intent. Mark the cunning of the knave!
He had encouraged my labours for none other purpose than the bringing of
fresh grist to his mill; and here was I, blindly leading precious souls to
destruction, the poor dupe of a specious villain—a wretch without bowels!
My agony of mind on being thus suddenly enlightened was of such a
desperate sort, that, gnashing my teeth, I leapt upon the miscreant, and,
bearing him to the ground with an awful crash, beat him about the head and
shoulders with the stout cane I carried; and with such good will, that I
presently found myself lying in the town gaol, covered with the blood of
my enemy, and every bone in my body aching from the unaccustomed
exercise.... Truly was I as forlorn and friendless a creature as the world
ever saw. My clothing had been rent beyond repair in the shameful
struggle, and, yet worse, one of my shoes was gone—how and where I knew
not; and although I promised the gaoler’s little lad a penny in the event
of his finding it, nothing was ever heard of it from that day to this. One
thought alone cheered me in the dark abyss into which I was fallen. I had
administered wholesome and righteous correction in proper season: hip and
thigh had I hewed my enemy; and, to reflect upon that, was as a healing
balm to my sore bones.” Mr. Primrose was at length released, and returned
to England.
Another officer of the Royal Navy—the engineer—deserves particular notice,
for his position is becoming daily of more and more importance. It is not
merely the care and working of the engines which propel the vessel in
which he is concerned; the chief and his subordinates have charge of
various hydraulic arrangements often used now-a-days on large vessels, in
connection with the steering apparatus; of electrical and gas-producing
apparatus; the mechanical arrangements of turrets and gun-carriages;
pumping machinery; the management of steam-launches and torpedoes. Take
the great ironclad _Thunderer_ (that on which the terrible boiler
explosion occurred) as an example: she has _twenty-six_ engines for
various purposes, apart from the engines used to propel the vessel, which
have an actual power of 6,000 horses. The _Téméraire_ has _thirty-four_
engines distinct from those required for propulsion. A competent authority
says that, “with the exception of the paymaster’s and surgeon’s stores, he
is responsible for everything in and outside the ship (meaning the hull,
apart from the navigator’s duties), to say nothing of his duties while
under weigh.” And yet engineers of the navy do not yet either derive the
status or emoluments fairly due to them, considering the great and
increasing responsibilities thrown upon them of late years. Sir Walter
Scott makes Rob Roy express “his contempt of weavers and spinners, and
sic-like mechanical persons, and their pursuits;” and in the naval service
some such feeling still lingers.
[Illustration: ENGINE-ROOM OF H.M.S. “WARRIOR.”]
The first serious introduction of steam-vessels into the Royal Navy
occurred about the year 1829, the Navy List of that year showing seven, of
which three only were commissioned, and these for home ports. No mention
is made of engineers; they were simply taken over from the contractor with
the vessel, and held no rank whatever. In 1837 an Admiralty Circular
conferred warrants on engineers, _who were to rank immediately below
__carpenters_; they were to be assisted by boys, trained by themselves.
Three years later, the standard was raised, and they were divided into
three classes; in 1842 a slight increase of pay was given, and they were
advanced to the magnificent rank of “after captains’ clerks,” and were
given a uniform, with buttons having a steam-engine embossed upon them. In
1847 the Government found that the increasing demands of the merchant and
passenger service took all the best men (the engineers’ pay, to-day, is
better on first-class steamship lines than in the Navy), and they were
forced to do something. The higher grades were formed into chief
engineers, and they were raised to the rank of commissioned officers,
taking their place after masters. The first great revolution in regard to
the use of steam in the Royal Navy took place in 1849, by means of the
screw-propeller. In that year Dupuy Delorme constructed the _Napoleon_, a
screw-vessel carrying 100 guns, and with engines of 600 horse-power, and
England had to follow. Then came the Russian War, the construction of
ironclad batteries, and finally, the ironclad movement, which commenced in
England in 1858, by the construction of the _Warrior_ and similar vessels.
It becomes a particularly serious question, at the present time, whether
the system, as regards the rank and pay of engineers, does not deter the
most competent men from entering the Royal Navy. Many very serious
explosions and accidents have occurred on board ironclads, which would
seem to indicate that our great commercial steamship lines are far better
engineered. The Admiralty has organised a system for training students at
the dockyard factories, followed up by a course of study at the Naval
College, Greenwich; and it is to be hoped that these efforts will lead to
greater efficiency in the service. A naval engineer of the present day
needs to be a man of liberal education, and of considerable scientific
knowledge, both theoretical and practical, and he should then receive on
board that recognition which his talents would command ashore. At present,
a chief engineer, R.N., ranks with a commander, and other engineers with
lieutenants. It is probable that, at some date in the not very distant
future, higher ranks will be thrown open to the engineer, as his
importance on board is steadily increasing.
The seamen of all nations, it has, in effect, been said, resemble each the
other more than do the nations to which they belong. “As,” says a
well-known writer, “the sea receives and amalgamates the waters of all the
rivers which pour into it, so it tends to amalgamate the men who make its
waves their home.... The seaman from the United States is said to carry to
the forecastle a large stock of ‘equality and the rights of man,’ and to
be unpleasantly distinguished by the inbred disrespect for authority which
cleaves, perhaps inseparably, to a democrat who believes that he has
whipped mankind, and that it is his mission, at due intervals, to whip
them again. But, on board, he, too, tones down to the colour of blue
water, and is more a seaman than anything else.” The French sailor is
painted, by Landelle, as the embodiment of the same frolicsome
lightheartedness, carelessness of the future, abandonment to impulse, and
devotion to his captain, comrades, and ship, with which we are familiar in
the English sailor, on the stage. But although depicted as much more
polished than, it is to be feared, the average sailor could be in truth,
he finishes by saying: “Il est toujours prêt à céder le haut du pavé _à
tout autre qu’à un soldat_.” It would seem, then, that the French sailor
revenges the treatment of society on the soldiers of his country. Is there
not a similar feeling existing, perhaps to a more limited extent, between
the sailors and soldiers of our own country? It hardly, however, extends
to the officers of the “United Service.”
Another trait of the British sailor’s character: Jack will forgive much to
the officer who is ever ready, brave, and daring, who is a true seaman in
times of peace, and a sailor _militant_ in times of war. Lord Nelson, the
most heroic seaman the world ever saw, it is pleasant to remember, was
equally the idol of his colleagues, of his subordinate officers, _and of
his men_ for these very reasons. After he had explained to his captains
his proposed plan of attack, just prior to the commencement of the battle
of Trafalgar, he took the men of the _Victory_ into his confidence. He
walked over all the decks, speaking kindly to the different classes of
seamen, and encouraging them, with his usual affability, praising the
manner in which they had barricaded certain parts of the ship. “All was
perfect, death-like silence, till just before the action began. Three
cheers were given his lordship as he ascended the quarter-deck ladder. He
had been particular in recommending cool, steady firing, in preference to
a hurrying fire, without aim or precision; and the event justified his
lordship’s advice, as the masts of his opponents came tumbling down on
their decks and over their sides.”(122) After the fatal bullet had done
its work, and Nelson was conveyed below, the surgeon came and probed the
wound. The ball was extracted; but the dying hero told the medical man how
sure he was that his wound was fatal, and begged, when he had dressed it,
that he would attend to the other poor fellows, equal sufferers with
himself. A boatswain’s mate on board the _Brilliant_ frigate, shortly
afterwards, when first acquainted of the death of Nelson, paid a tribute
of affection and honest feeling, which shows how clearly he had gained the
hearts of all. The boatswain’s mate, then doing duty as boatswain, was
ordered to pipe all hands to quarters; he did not respond, and the
lieutenant on duty went to inquire the cause. The man had been celebrated
for his promptness, as well as bravery, but he was found utterly unnerved,
and sobbing like a child. “I can’t do it,” said he—“poor dear fellow, that
I have been in many a hard day with!—and to lose him now! I wouldn’t have
cared so much for my old father, mother, brothers, or sisters; but to
think of parting with poor Nelson!” and he broke down utterly. The
officer, honouring his feelings, let him go below. Who does not remember
how, when the body of Nelson lay in state at Greenwich, a deputation of
the _Victory’s_ crew paid their last loving respects, tearful and silent,
and could scarcely be removed from the scene? or how, when the two
Union-Jacks and St. George’s ensign were being lowered into the grave at
St. Paul’s—the colours shattered as was the body of the dead hero—the
brave fellows who had borne them each tore off a part of the largest flag,
to remind them ever after of England’s greatest victory and England’s
greatest loss? Many an otherwise noble and brave officer has utterly
failed in endearing himself to his men; and there can be no doubt of the
value of being thoroughly _en rapport_ with them—the more as it in no way
need relax discipline. It is an implied compliment to a crew from their
commander, to be taken, at the proper time, into his confidence. The
following anecdote will show how much an action was decided by this, and
with how little loss of life.
The _Bellona_, of 74 guns and 558 men, with a most valuable freight on
merchants’ account, and commanded by the celebrated Captain R. Faulkner,
and the _Brilliant_, a 36-gun frigate, Captain Loggie, sailed from the
Tagus in August, 1761. When off Vigo, three sail were discovered
approaching the land, and the strangers continued their approach, till
they found out the character of the English vessels, and then crowded on
all sail, in flight. Upon this, the _Bellona_ and _Brilliant_ pursued,
coming up with them next morning, to find that they would have to engage
one ship of 74 guns, the _Courageux_, with 700 men, and two frigates of 36
guns each, the _Malicieuse_ and _Ermine_. After exchanging a few
broadsides, the French vessels shot ahead; when Captain Loggie, seeing
that he could not expect to take either of the smaller vessels, determined
to manœuvre, and lead them such a wild-goose chase, that the _Bellona_
should have to engage the _Courageux_ alone. During the whole engagement,
he withstood the united attacks of both the frigates, each of them with
equal force to his own, and at last obliged them to sheer off, greatly
damaged. Meanwhile, the _Courageux_ and _Bellona_ had approached each
other very fast. The _Courageux_, when within musket-shot, fired her first
broadside, and there was much impatience on the _Bellona_ to return it;
but they were restrained by Faulkner, who called out to them to hold hard,
and not to fire till they saw the whites of the Frenchmen’s eyes, adding,
“Take my word for it, they will never stand the singeing of their
whiskers!” His speech to the sailors just before the action is a model of
sailor-like advice. “Gentlemen, I have been bred a seaman from my youth,
and, consequently, am no orator; but I promise to carry you all near
enough, and then you may speak for yourselves. Nevertheless, I think it
necessary to acquaint you with the plan I propose to pursue, in taking
this ship, that you may be the better prepared.... I propose to lead you
close on the enemy’s larboard quarter, when we will discharge _two_
broadsides, and then back astern, and range upon the other quarter, and so
tell your guns as you pass. I recommend you at all times to point chiefly
at the quarters, with your guns slanting fore and aft; this is the
principal part of a ship. If you kill the officers, break the rudder, and
snap the braces, she is yours, of course; but, for this reason, I desire
you may only fire one round of shot and grape above, and two rounds, shot
only, below. Take care and send them home with exactness. This is a rich
ship; they will render you, in return, their weight in gold.” This
programme was very nearly carried out; almost every shot took effect. The
French still kept up a very brisk fire, and in a moment the _Bellona’s_
shrouds and rigging were almost all cut to pieces, and in nine minutes her
mizen-mast fell over the stern. Undaunted, Faulkner managed to wear his
ship round; the officers and men flew to their respective opposite guns,
and carried on, from the larboard side, a fire even more terrible than
they had hitherto kept up from the starboard guns. “It was impossible for
mortal beings to withstand a battery so incessantly repeated, and so
fatally directed, and, in about twenty minutes from the first shot, the
French colours were hauled down, and orders were immediately given in the
_Bellona_ to cease firing, the enemy having struck. The men had left their
quarters, and all the officers were on the quarter-deck, congratulating
one another on their victory, when, unexpectedly, a round of shot came
from the lower tier of the _Courageux_. It is impossible to describe the
rage that animated the _Bellona’s_ crew on this occasion. Without waiting
for orders, they flew again to their guns, and in a moment poured in what
they familiarly termed two ‘comfortable broadsides’ upon the enemy, who
now called out loudly for quarter, and firing at length ceased on both
sides.” The _Courageux_ was a mere wreck, having nothing but her foremast
and bowsprit standing, several of her ports knocked into one, and her deck
rent in a hundred places. She lost 240 killed, and 110 wounded men were
put ashore at Lisbon. On board the _Bellona_ only _six_ men were killed
outright, and about twenty-eight wounded; the loss of her mizen was her
only serious disaster.
[Illustration: FIGHT BETWEEN THE “COURAGEUX” AND THE “BELLONA.”]
One more possibility in the officer’s existence, although now nearly
obsolete. The ceremonies formerly attendant on “crossing the line”—_i.e._,
passing over the equator—so often described, have, of late years, been
more honoured in the breach than in the observance. On merchant vessels
they had become a nuisance, as the sailors often made them an opportunity
for levying black mail on timid and nervous passengers. In the Royal Navy,
they afforded the one chance for “getting even” with unpopular officers;
and very roughly was it sometimes accomplished. They are for this reason
introduced in this chapter, as the officers had a direct interest in them.
With trifling exceptions, the programme was as follows. The men stripped
to the waist, wearing only “duck” unmentionables, prepared, immediately
after breakfast, for the saturnalia of the day—a day when the ship was _en
carnival_, and discipline relaxed. Early in the day, a man at the
masthead, peering through a telescope, would announce a boat on the
weather-bow, and soon after, a voice from the jibboom was heard hailing
the ship, announcing that Neptune wished to come on board. The ship was
accordingly hove-to, when a sailor, in fashionable coat, knee-breeches,
and powdered hair, came aft, and announced to the commander that he was
_gentleman’s gentleman_ to the god of the sea, who desired an interview.
This accorded, the procession of Neptune from the forecastle at once
commenced. The triumphal car was a gun-carriage, drawn by half-a-dozen
half-naked and grotesquely-painted sailors, their heads covered by wigs of
sea-weed. Neptune was always masked, as were many of his satellites, in
order that the officers should not know who enacted the leading _rôles_.
The god wore a crown, and held out a trident, on which a dolphin, supposed
to have been impaled that morning, was stuck. He had a flowing wig and
beard of oakum, and was, in all points, “made-up” for Neptune himself. His
suite included a secretary of state, his head stuck all over with long
quills; a surgeon, with lancet, pill-box, and medicines; his barber, with
a razor cut from an iron hoop, and with an assistant, who carried a tub
for a shaving-box. Mrs. Neptune was represented by the ugliest man on
board, who, with sea-weed hair and a huge night-cap, carried a baby—one of
the boys of the ship—in long clothes; the latter played with a
marline-spike, given it to assist in cutting its teeth. The nurse
followed, with a bucketful of _burgoo_ (thick oatmeal porridge or
pudding), and fed the baby incessantly with the cook’s iron ladle.
Sea-nymphs, selected from the clumsiest and fattest of the crew, helped to
swell the retinue. As soon as the procession halted before the captain,
behind whom the steward waited, carrying a tray with a bottle of wine and
glasses, Neptune and Amphitrite paid submission to the former, as
representative of Great Britain, and the god presented him the dolphin.
After the interview, in which Neptune not unfrequently poked fun and
thrust home-truths at the officers, the captain offered the god and
goddess a bumper of wine, and then the rougher part of the ceremony
commenced. Neptune would address his court somewhat as follows: “Hark ye,
my Tritons, you’re here to shave and duck and bleed all as needs it; but
you’ve got to be gentle, or we’ll get no more fees. The first of ye as
disobeys me, I’ll tie to a ten-ton gun, and sink him ten thousand fathoms
below, where he shall drink nothing but salt-water and feed on seaweed for
the next hundred years.” The cow-pen was usually employed for the
ducking-bath; it was lined with double canvas, and boarded up, so as to
hold several butts of water. Marryat, in the first naval novel he wrote,
says: “Many of the officers purchased exemption from shaving and physic by
a bottle of rum; but none could escape the sprinkling of salt water, which
fell about in great profusion; even the captain received his share.... It
was easy to perceive, on this occasion, who were favourites with the
ship’s company, by the degree of severity with which they were treated.
The tyro was seated on the side of the cow-pen: he was asked the place of
his nativity, and the moment he opened his mouth the shaving-brush of the
barber—which was a very large paint-brush—was crammed in, with all the
filthy lather, with which they covered his face and chin; this was roughly
scraped off with the great razor. The doctor felt his pulse, and
prescribed a pill, which was forced into his cheek; and the
smelling-bottle, the cork of which was armed with sharp points of pins,
was so forcibly applied to his nose as to bring blood. After this, he was
thrown backward into the bath, and allowed to scramble out the best way he
could.” The first-lieutenant, the reader may remember, dodged out of the
way for some time, but at last was surrounded, and plied so effectually
with buckets of salt water, that he fled down a hatchway. The buckets were
pitched after him, “and he fell, like the Roman virgin, covered with the
shields of the soldiers.” Very unpopular men or officers were made to
swallow half a pint of salt water. Those good old times!
Pleasant is it to read of life on board a modern first-class man-of-war.
Where there are, perhaps, thirty officers in the ward-room, it would be
hard indeed if one cannot find a kindred spirit, while on such a vessel
the band will discourse sweet music while you dine, and soothe you over
the walnuts and wine, after the toils of the day, with selections from the
best operas, waltzes, and quadrilles. Then comes the coffee, and the
post-prandial cigar in the smoking-room. At sea, luncheon is dispensed
with, and the regular hour is half-past two; but in port both lunch and
dinner are provided, and the officers on leave ashore can return to
either. Say that you have extended your ramble in the country, you will
have established an appetite by half-past five, the hour when the
officers’ boat puts off from shore, wharf, or pier. Perhaps the most
pleasant evening is the guests’ night, one of which is arranged for every
week, when the officer can, by notifying the mess caterer, invite a friend
or two. The mess caterer is the officer selected to superintend the
victualling department, as the wine caterer does the liquid refreshments.
It is by no means an enviable position, for it is the Englishman’s
conceded right to growl, and sailors are equal to the occasion. Dr.
Stables remarks on the unfairness of this under-the-table stabbing, when
most probably the caterer is doing his best to please. But on a
well-regulated ship, where the officers are harmonious, and either not
extravagant or with private means, the dinner-hour is the most agreeable
time in the day. After the cloth has been removed, and the president, with
a due preliminary tap on the table to attract attention, has given the
only toast of the evening—“The Queen”—the bandmaster, who has been peering
in at the door for some minutes, starts the National Anthem at the right
time, and the rest of the evening is devoted to pleasant intercourse, or
visits ashore to the places of amusement or houses of hospitable
residents.
Before leaving, for the nonce, the Royal Navy, its officers and men, a few
facts may be permitted, particularly interesting at the present time. The
navy, as now constituted, has for its main backbone fifty-four ironclads.
There are of all classes of vessels no less than 462, but more than a
fourth of these are merely hulks, doing harbour service, &c., while quite
a proportion of the remainder—varying according to the exigencies of the
times—are out of commission. There are seventy-eight steam gun-boats and
five fine Indian troop-ships. These numbers are drawn from the official
Navy List of latest date.
It is said that since the ironclad movement commenced, not less than
£300,000,000 has been disbursed (in about twenty years) by the different
countries of the world. Even Japan, Peru, Venezuela, Chili, the Argentine
Confederation, possess many of this class of vessel, of more or less
power. The British fleet, under the command of Vice-Admiral Hornby, in the
Mediterranean, &c., though numerically not counting twenty per cent. of
the fleets in the days of Nelson and Collingwood, when “a hundred sail of
the line” frequently assembled, has cost infinitely more. A cool half
million is not an exceptional cost for an ironclad, while one of the
latest of our turret-ships, the _Inflexible_, has cost the nation
three-quarters of a million sterling at the least. She is to carry four
eighty-ton guns. A recent correspondent of a daily journal states that
next to Great Britain, “the ironclad fleet of the Sultan ranks foremost
among the navies of the world.” Be that as it may, there can be little
doubt that if Russia had succeeded in acquiring it, it would, with her own
fleet, have constituted a very powerful rival.
The progressive augmentation in the size of naval vessels has been rapid
in Great Britain. When Henry VIII. constructed his _Henry Grace de Dieu_,
of 1,000 tons,(123) it was, indeed, a great giant among pigmies, for a
vessel of two or three hundred tons was then considered large. At the
death of Elizabeth she left forty-two ships, of 17,000 tons in all, and
8,346 men; fifteen of her vessels being 600 tons and upwards. From this
period the tonnages of the navy steadily increased. The first really
scientific architect, Mr. Phineas Pett, remodelled the navy to good
purpose in the reigns of James I. and Charles I. Previous to this time the
vessels with their lofty poops and forecastles had greatly resembled
Chinese junks. He launched the _Sovereign of the Seas_, a vessel 232 feet
in length, and of a number of tons exactly corresponding to the date,
1637, when she left the slips. Cromwell found a navy of fourteen
two-deckers, and left one of 150 vessels, of which one-third were
line-of-battle ships. He was the first to lay naval estimates before
Parliament, and obtained £400,000 per annum for the service. James II.
left 108 ships of the line, and sixty-five other vessels of 102,000 tons,
with 42,000 men. William III. brought it to 272 ships, of 159,020 tons.
George II. left, in 1760, 412 ships, of 321,104 tons. Twenty-two years
later the navy had reached 617 vessels, and in 1813 we had the enormous
number of 1,000 vessels, of which 256 were of the line, measuring 900,000
tons, carrying 146,000 seamen and marines, and costing £18,000,000 per
annum to maintain. But since the peace of 1815, the number of vessels has
greatly diminished, while an entirely new era of naval construction has
been inaugurated. In the seventeenth century a vessel of 1,500 tons was
considered of enormous size. At the end of the eighteenth, 2,500 was the
outside limit, whilst there are now many vessels of 4,000 tons, and the
navy possesses frigates of 6,000 and upwards. Several of our enormous
ironclads have a tonnage of over 11,000 tons, while the _Great Eastern_—of
course a _very_ exceptional case—has a tonnage of 22,500.
[Illustration: THE “GREAT HARRY” AND “GREAT EASTERN” IN CONTRAST.]
Whilst we have efficient military volunteers enough to form a grand army,
our naval volunteers do not number more than the contingents for a couple
of large vessels. There are scarcely more than a thousand of the latter,
and only three stations. London, Liverpool, and Brighton divide the honour
between them of possessing corps. The writer believes that he will be
doing a service to many young men—who in their turn may do good service
for their country—in briefly detailing the conditions and expenses of
joining. In a very short period of time the members have become
wonderfully efficient, and the sailor-like appearance of the men is well
illustrated by the fact, that at a recent reception at the Mansion House a
number of them were taken for men-of-war’s men, and so described in
several daily journals. Their prowess is illustrated by the prizes
distributed by Lady Ashley, at the inspection of the 1st London Corps, in
the West India Docks, on February 9th last. Badges were won by the gunner
making the best practice with the heavy gun at sea, and by the marksman
making the greatest number of points with the rifle. The “Lord Ashley
challenge prize,” for the best gun’s crew at sea, was won by fourteen men
of No. 2 battery, who fired forty-two rounds at 1,300 yards in
thirty-seven minutes, scoring 411 points out of a possible 504 points. The
official report says:—“that further comment on the men or their instructor
is superfluous.” The list included rifle, battery, and boating prizes.
The Royal Navy Artillery Volunteers are raised under an Act passed in
1873, and are directly subject to the authority of the Admiralty. They may
be assembled for actual employment, their duties then consisting of coast
or harbour service. They are not required to go aloft, or to attend to the
engine fires, but in regard to berthing and messing must conform to the
arrangements usual with seamen. The force is formed into brigades, each
brigade consisting of four or more batteries, of from sixty to eighty men.
Each brigade has a lieutenant-commander, and each battery a
sub-lieutenant, chief petty officer, first and second-class petty
officers, buglers, &c., while the staff includes a lieutenant-instructor,
first-class petty officer instructor, surgeon, bugle-major, and armourer.
Those desiring to join a corps should communicate with the Secretary of
the Admiralty. The annual subscription to the 1st London Corps is one
guinea, while each member has to provide himself with two white frocks,
one blue serge frock, one pair of blue trousers, one blue cloth cap, &c.,
black handkerchief, flannel, knife, lanyard, and monkey-jacket, costing in
the neighbourhood of six pounds. When on a cruise, in gunboat, the
volunteer requires in addition serge trousers and jumpers, flannel shirt,
towels, and brush and comb, canvas bags, &c. The officers’ uniforms are
the same as those of the Royal Navy, with the exception of silver, for the
most part, taking the place of gold. It is more expensive to join the
naval than the military volunteers, and the class composing the corps are
generally well-to-do young men, a large number of them employed in
shipping offices, and mercantile pursuits connected with the sea.
The drills consist of practice with great guns, rifle, pistol, and cutlass
exercises. “Efficient” volunteers are entitled to a badge, while men
returned five times as efficient may wear one star, and those returned ten
times two stars, above said badge. Every volunteer must attend at least
two drills a month, until he has obtained the standard of an “efficient.”
When on actual service, the Royal Naval Artillery Volunteers will receive
the same pay, allowances, and victuals as those of relative rank in the
navy, and when embarked on any of Her Majesty’s ships for more than
forty-eight hours, in practice, will either be victualled or receive a
money compensation. The cruises in gun-boats, &c., usually last ten days,
and the vessel visits many of the Channel ports, &c., more especially off
points where gun practice is practicable. A volunteer wounded, either on
drill or in actual service, is entitled to the same compensation as any
seaman in the navy would be under similar circumstances, and if killed his
widow (if any) to the same gratuities out of the Greenwich Hospital Funds
as would a Royal Navy seaman’s widow. Members who are able to take
advantage of the cruise in gun-boats must have attended drill regularly
for three months previously. It must be remembered that each man costs the
Government from £8 to £10 for the first year, in the expenses incurred in
great gun and other practice; and it is therefore made a point of honour
to those joining that they will devote sufficient time to their drills to
make themselves thoroughly efficient.
The London Naval Artillery Volunteers have a fine vessel, the _President_,
now in the West India Docks, on which to exercise, while to accustom them
to living on board ship, the old _Rainbow_, off Temple Pier, is open to
them, under certain conditions, as a place of residence. A number avail
themselves of this: sleep on board in hammocks, and contribute their quota
of the mess expenses. The writer is the last to decry other manly
exercises, such as cricket, foot-ball, racing, or pedestrianism, but naval
volunteering has the advantage of not merely comprising a series of manly
exercises, but in being directly practical and specially health-giving.
And to prevent the need of impressment, the Government did well in
establishing the Royal Naval Reserve. The latest estimates provided
£140,000 for the year; the number, which at present is about 20,000 men,
is not to exceed 30,000. The service is divided into two classes: the
first class consisting of seamen of the merchant service, and the second,
fishermen on the coasts of Great Britain and Ireland. Both divisions are
practical sailors, and the value of their services in a time of war would
be inestimable. They are required to drill twenty-eight days in each year,
for which they receive about £6 per annum, and sundry allowances for
travelling, &c. The former class can be drilled at our stations abroad, so
that a merchant seaman is not necessarily tied to England, or to mere
coasting trade.